Part 18

Holy Saint Patrick, father of our faith, Belov’d of God! Shield thy dear Church from the impending scaith, Or, if the rod Must scourge it yet again, inspire and raise To emprise high Men like the heroic race of other days, Who joyed to die.

Fear! wherefore should the Celtic people fear Their Church’s fate? The day is not--the day was never near-- Could desolate The Destin’d Island, all whose clay Is holy ground: Its Cross shall stand till that predestin’d day When Erin’s self is drown’d.

The Tryst of the Night.

[Sidenote: MARY C. G. BYRON

(M. C. Gillington)]

Out of the uttermost ridge of dusk, where the dark and the day are mingled, The voice of the Night rose cold and calm--it called through the shadow-swept air; Through all the valleys and lone hillsides, it pierced, it thrilled, it tingled-- It summoned me forth to the wild sea-shore, to meet with its mystery there.

Out of the deep ineffable blue, with palpitant swift repeating Of gleam and glitter and opaline glow, that broke in ripples of light-- In burning glory it came and went,--I heard, I saw it beating, Pulse by pulse, from star to star,--the passionate heart of the Night!

Out of the thud of the rustling sea--the panting, yearning, throbbing Waves that stole on the startled shore, with coo and mutter of spray-- The wail of the Night came fitful-faint,--I heard her stifled sobbing: The cold salt drops fell slowly, slowly, gray into gulfs of gray.

There through the darkness the great world reeled, and the great tides roared, assembling-- Murmuring hidden things that are past, and secret things that shall be; There at the limits of life we met, and touched with a rapturous trembling-- One with each other, I and the Night, and the skies, and the stars, and sea.

The Doom-Bar.

[Sidenote: ALICE E. GILLINGTON]

O d’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, whilst it’s rainin’? Did you hear it mourn in the dimorts,[33] when the surf woke up and sighed? The choughs screamed on the sand, And the foam flew over land, And the seas rolled dark on the Doom-Bar at rising of the tide.

I gave my lad a token, when he left me nigh heartbroken, To mind him of old Padstow town, where loving souls abide; ’Twas a ring with the words set All round, “Can Love Forget?” And I watched his vessel toss on the Bar with the outward-turning tide.

D’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, while it’s rainin’? And his vessel has never crossed the Bar from the purple seas outside; And down the shell-pink sands, Where we once went, holding hands, Alone I watch the Doom-Bar and the rising of the tide.

One day--’twas four years after--the harbour-girls, with laughter So soft and wild as sea-gulls when they’re playing seek-and-hide, Coaxed me out--for the tides were lower Than had ever been known before; And we ran across the Doom-Bar, all white and shining wide.

I saw a something shinin’, where the long, wet weeds were twinin’ Around a rosy scallop; and a gold ring lay inside; And around its rim were set The words “Can Love Forget?”-- And there upon the Doom-Bar I knelt and sobbed and cried.

I took my ring and smoothed it where the sand and shells had grooved it; But O! St Petrock bells will never ring me home a bride!-- For the night my lad was leavin’ Me, all tearful-eyed and grievin’, He had tossed my keepsake out on the Bar to the rise and fall of the tide!

D’you hear the seas complainin’, and complainin’, while it’s rainin’? Did you hear them call in the dimorts, when the surf woke up and sighed? Maybe it is a token I shall go no more heart-broken-- And I shall cross the Doom-Bar at the turning of the tide.

The Seven Whistlers.

[Sidenote: ALICE E. GILLINGTON]

Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear, The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor; It was not in the morning, nor the noonday’s golden grace, It was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped loud in the Race: The tide swings round in the Race, and they’re plaining whisht and low, And they come from the gray sea-marshes, where the gray sea-lavenders grow, And the cotton-grass sways to and fro; And the gore-sprent sundews thrive With oozy hands alive. Canst hear the curlews’ whistle through thy dreamings dark and drear, How they’re crying, crying, crying, Pentruan of Porthmeor?

Shall thy hatchment, mouldering grimly in yon church amid the sands, Stay trouble from thy household? Or the carven cherub-hands Which hold thy shield to the font? Or the gauntlets on the wall Keep evil from its onward course as the great tides rise and fall? The great tides rise and fall, and the cave sucks in the breath Of the wave when it runs with tossing spray, and the ground-sea rattles of Death; “I rise in the shallows,” ’a saith, “Where the mermaid’s kettle sings, And the black shag flaps his wings!” Ay, the green sea-mountain leaping may lead horror in its rear, When thy drenched sail leans to its yawning trough, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

Yet the stoup waits at thy doorway for its load of glittering ore, And thy ships lie in the tideway, and thy flocks along the moor; And thine arishes gleam softly when the October moonbeams wane, When in the bay all shining the fishers set the seine; The fishers cast the seine, and ’tis “Heva!” in the town, And from the watch-rock on the hill the huers are shouting down; And ye hoist the mainsail brown, As over the deep-sea roll The lurker follows the shoal; To follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear, When the halyards creek to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear, The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor! It was not in the morning, nor the noonday’s golden grace,-- It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs yelped in the Race: --The tide swings round in the Race, and they’re whistling whisht and low, And they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged foxgloves blow, And the moor-grass sways to and fro, Where the yellow moor-birds sigh, And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by. Canst hear the curlews’ whistle through the darkness wild and drear,-- How they’re calling, calling, calling Pentruan of Porthmeor?

Requiem.

[Sidenote: SHANE LESLIE]

In sweet Irish clay may I lie Heart clasped to my race, O brothers and sisters of mine, Give me your space. For mine was the life that you lived, The fight that you fought, And bright in the gloom of mine own Were deeds you had wrought. So let the dear dust of your head Drift over my face, And this be the dirge that you sing And song that you trace. A pebble is thrown to the beach From whence it was brought, A leaf has dropped weary for rest To those it had sought.

An Old Woman of the Roads.

(“Wild Earth and other Poems.” Macmillan.)

[Sidenote: PADRAIC COLUM]

O, to have a little house! To own the hearth and stool and all! The heaped-up sods upon the fire, The pile of turf against the wall!

To have a clock with weights and chains And pendulum swinging up and down! A dresser filled with shining delph, Speckled and white and blue and brown!

I could be busy all the day Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, And fixing on their shelf again My white and blue and speckled store!

I could be quiet there at night Beside the fire and by myself, Sure of a bed, and loath to leave The ticking clock and the shining delph!

Och! but I’m weary of mist and dark, And roads where there’s never a house or bush, And tired I am of bog and road, And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

And I am praying to God on high, And I am praying Him night and day, For a little house--a house of my own-- Out of the wind’s and the rain’s way.

A Cradle Song.

(“Wild Earth and other Poems.” Macmillan.)

[Sidenote: PADRAIC COLUM]

O, men from the fields! Come softly within. Tread softly, softly, O men coming in.

Mavourneen is going From me and from you, Where Mary will fold him With mantle of blue

From reek of the smoke And cold of the floor, And peering of things Across the half-door.

O men from the fields! Soft, softly come thro’. Mary puts round him Her mantle of blue.

The Coolun.

(“Reincarnations.” Macmillan.)

[Sidenote: ELEANOR HULL]

Come with me, under my coat, And we will drink our fill Of the milk of the white goat, Or wine if it be thy will; And we will talk until Talk is a trouble, too, Out on the side of the hill, And nothing is left to do, But an eye to look into an eye And a hand in a hand to slip, And a sigh to answer a sigh, And a lip to find out a lip: What if the night be black And the air on the mountain chill, Where the goat lies down in her track And all but the fern is still! Stay with me under my coat, And we will drink our fill Of the milk of the white goat Out on the side of the hill.

The Clouds.

(“Songs from the Clay.” Macmillan.)

[Sidenote: JAMES STEPHENS]

I stood and looked around where, far and nigh, The heather bloom was swaying in the air, The clouds chased one another down the sky Beyond my sight, and everywhere The birds flew through the sunshine, where they sang So loud, so clear, so sweet, the heavens rang Of lark and thrush and stare.

I never heard a melody so sweet As I heard then; I never knew a day So filled with sunshine; never saw the fleet And tinted clouds so high and free and gay; Each danced to the horizon like a boy Let out from school, each tumbled in its joy And ran away.

The Old Woman of Beare.

(“The Poem Book of the Gael.” Chatto & Windus.)

[Sidenote: ELEANOR HULL]

Ebb tide to me! My life drifts downward with the drifting sea; Old age has caught and compassed me about, The tides of time run out.

The “Hag of Beare!” ’Tis thus I hear the young girls jeer and mock; Yet I, who in these cast-off clouts appear, Once donned a queenly smock.

Ye love but self, Ye churls! to-day ye worship pelf! But in the days I lived we sought for men, We loved our lovers then!

Ah! swiftly when Their splendid chariots coursed upon the plain, I checked their pace, for me they flew amain, Held in by curb and rein.

I envy not the old, Whom gold adorns, whom richest robes enfold, But ah! the girls, who pass my cell at morn, While I am shorn!

On sweet May-morn Their ringing laughter on the breeze is borne, While I, who shake with ague and with age, In Litanies engage.

Amen! and woe is me! I lie here rotting like a broken tree; Each acorn has its day and needs must fall, Time makes an end of all!

[Sidenote: ELEANOR HULL]

I had my day with kings! We drank the brimming mead, the ruddy wine, Where now I drink whey-water; for company more fine Than shrivelled hags, hag though I am, I pine.

The flood-tide thine! Mine but the low down-curling ebb-tide’s flow, My youth, my hope, are carried from my hand, Thy flood-tide foams to land.

My body drops Slowly but sure towards the abode we know; When God’s High Son takes from me all my props It will be time to go!

Bony my arms and bare Could you but see them ’neath the mantle’s flap. Wizened and worn, that once were round and fair, When kings lay in my lap.

’Tis, “O my God” with me, Many prayers said, yet more prayers left undone; If I could spread my garment in the sun I’d say them, every one.

The sea-wave talks, Athwart the frozen earth grim winter stalks; Young Fermod, son of Mugh, ne’er said me nay, Yet he comes not to-day.

How still they row, Oar dipped by oar the wavering reeds among, To Alma’s shore they press, a ghostly throng, Deeply they sleep and long.

No lightsome laugh Disturbs my fireside’s stillness; shadows fall, And quiet forms are gathering round my hearth, Yet lies the hand of silence on them all.

I do not deem it ill That a nun’s veil should rest upon my head; But finer far my feast-robe’s various hue To me, when all is said.

My very cloak grows old; Grey its tint, its woof is frayed and thin; I seem to feel grey hairs within its fold, Or are they on my skin?

O happy Isle of Ocean, Thy flood-tide leaps to meet eddying wave Lifting it up and onward. Till the grave The sea-wave comes not after ebb for me.

I find them not Those sunny sands I knew so well of yore; Only the surf’s sad roar sounds up to me, My tide will turn no more.

From a “Litany of Beauty.”

[Sidenote: THOMAS MACDONAGH]

O shapely Flower that must for aye endure! O Voice of God that every heart must hear! O Hymn of purest souls that dost unsphere The ravished soul that lists! O white, white Gem! O Rose that dost the senses drown in bliss! No thing can stay, no thing can stem, No thing can lure the heart to miss Thy love, thy joy, thy rapture divine-- O Beauty, Beauty, ever thine The soul, the heart, the brain, To hymn thee in a loud perpetual strain, Shriller and sweeter than song of wine, Than lay of sorrow or love or war-- Beauty of heaven and sun and day, Beauty of water and frost and star, Beauty of dusk-tide, narrowing, grey ... Beauty of silver light, Beauty of purple night, Beauty of solemn breath, Beauty of closed eye, and sleep, and death ... Beauty of dawn and dew, Beauty of morning peace Ever ancient and ever new, Ever renewed till waking cease Or sleep forever, when loud the angel’s word Through all the world is heard ... Beauty of brute and bird, Beauty of earthly creatures Whose hearts by the hand of God are stirred ... Beauty of the soul, Beauty informing forms and features, Fairest to God’s eye, Beauty that cannot fade or die Till eternal atoms to ruin roll!

(By permission of The Talbot Press, Dublin.)

Beauty of blinded Trust, Led by the hand of God To a heaven where cherub hath never trod. Austere Beauty of Truth, Lighting the way of the Just ... Splendid Beauty of Youth, Staying when Youth is fled, Living when Life is dead, Burning in funeral dust!

The glory of form doth pale and pall, Beauty endures to the end of all.

I will go with my Father a-ploughing.

[Sidenote: SEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL]

I will go with my father a-ploughing To the green field by the sea, And the rooks and the crows and the seagulls Will come flocking after me. I will sing to the patient horses With the lark in the white of the air, And my father will sing the plough-song That blesses the cleaving share.

I will go with my father a-sowing To the red field by the sea, And the rooks and the gulls and the starlings Will come flocking after me. I will sing to the striding sowers With the finch on the flowering sloe, And my father will sing the seed-song That only the wise men know.

I will go with my father a-reaping To the brown field by the sea, And the geese and the crows and the children Will come flocking after me. I will sing to the weary reapers With the wren in the heat of the sun, And my father will sing the scythe-song That joys for the harvest done.

A Northern Love Song.

[Sidenote: SEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL]

Brighidín Bhán of the lint-white locks, What was it gave you that flaxen hair, Long as the summer heath in the rocks? What was it gave you those eyes of fire, Lip so waxen and cheek so wan? Tell me, tell me, Brighidín Bhán, Little white bride of my heart’s desire.

Was it the Good People stole you away, Little white changeling, Brighidín Bhán? Carried you off in the ring of the dawn, Laid like a queen on her purple car, Carried you back between night and day; Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair, Gave you those eyes of wandering fire, Lit at the wheel of the northern star? Gave you that look so far away? Tell me, tell me, Brighidín Bhán, Little white bride of my heart’s desire.

Fairy Workers.

(“Songs of Donegal.” Herbert Jenkins.)

[Sidenote: PATRICK MACGILL]

Said the Fairies of Kilfinnan To the Fairies of Macroom: “Oh! send to us a shuttle For our little fairy loom. Our workers, one and twenty, Are waiting in the Coom----” So Kilfinnan got a shuttle From the Fairies of Macroom.

Kilfinnan got the shuttle, The shuttle for the loom. “Now, send us back a hammer,” Said the Fairies of Macroom. “We’ve cobblers, one and twenty, All idle in their room.” And Kilfinnan sent a hammer To the Fairies of Macroom.

The Queen of all the Fairies Sat in her drawing-room: Her robes came from Kilfinnan, Her brogues came from Macroom. Now, at the Royal Dinner The proudest in the room Were the Fairies from Kilfinnan And the Fairies from Macroom.

The Shadow People.

(“Complete Poems.” Published by Herbert Jenkins.)

[Sidenote: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE]

Old lame Bridget doesn’t hear Fairy music in the grass When the gloaming’s on the mere And the shadow people pass: Never hears their slow grey feet Coming from the village street Just beyond the parson’s wall, Where the clover globes are sweet And the mushroom’s parasol Opens in the moonlit rain. Every night I hear them call From their long and merry train. Old lame Bridget says to me, “It is just your fancy, child.” She cannot believe I see Laughing faces in the wild, Hands that twinkle in the sedge Bowing at the water’s edge Where the finny minnows quiver, Shaping on a blue wave’s ledge Bubble foam to sail the river. And the sunny hands to me Beckon ever, beckon ever. Oh! I would be wild and free, And with the shadow people be.

My Mother.

(“Complete Poems.” Published by Herbert Jenkins.)

[Sidenote: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE]

God made my mother on an April day, From sorrow and the mist along the sea, Lost birds’ and wanderers’ songs and ocean spray, And the moon loved her wandering jealously.

Beside the ocean’s din she combed her hair, Singing the nocturne of the passing ships, Before her earthly lover found her there And kissed away the music from her lips.

She came unto the hills and saw the change That brings the swallow and the geese in turns. But there was not a grief she deeméd strange, For there is that in her which always mourns.

Kind heart she has for all on hill or wave Whose hopes grew wings like ants to fly away. I bless the God Who such a mother gave This poor bird-hearted singer of a day.

Lyric from “The Crier by Night.”

(“King Lear’s Wife and other Plays.” Published by Constable.)

[Sidenote: GORDON BOTTOMLEY]

The bird in my heart’s a-calling through a far-fled, tear-grey sea To the soft slow hills that cherish dim waters weary for me, Where the folk of rath and dun trail homeward silently In the mist of the early night-fall that drips from their hair like rain.

The bird in my heart’s a-flutter, for the bitter wind of the sea Shivers with thyme and woodbine as my body with memory; I feel their perfumes ooze in my ears like melody-- The scent of the mead at the harping I shall not hear again.

The bird in my heart’s a-sinking to a hushed vale hid in the sea, Where the moonlit dew o’er dead fighters is stirred by the feet of the Shee, Who are lovely and old as the earth but younger than I an be Who have known the forgetting of dying to a life one lonely pain.

The Quest.

(Dublin University Press.)

They said: “She dwelleth in some place apart, Immortal Truth, within whose eyes Who looks may find the secret of the skies And healing for life’s smart.”

I sought Her in loud caverns underground-- On heights where lightnings flashed and fell; I scaled high Heaven; I stormed the gates of Hell, But Her I never found.

Till thro’ the tumults of my Quest I caught A whisper: “Here, within thy heart, I dwell; for I am thou: behold thou art The Seeker--and the Sought.”

The Fool.

[Sidenote: PADRAIC H. PEARSE]

Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool; A fool that hath loved his folly, Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses, or their quiet homes, Or their fame in men’s mouths; A fool that in all his days hath done never a prudent thing, Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if another reaped The fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed; A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of all Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the reaping-hooks And the poor are filled that were empty, Tho’ he go hungry.

I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youth In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil. Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God.

I have squandered the splendid years: Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again, Aye, fling them from me! For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard, Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow’s teen, Shall not bargain or huxter with God; or was it a jest of Christ’s And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word?

The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces,

[Sidenote: PADRAIC H. PEARSE]

And said, “This man is a fool,” and others have said, “He blasphemeth”; And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a life In the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things, To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart could hold.

O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true? What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwell In the house that I shaped in my heart, the noble house of my thought? Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked the lives of my kin On the truth of Thy dreadful word. Do not remember my failures, But remember this my faith.

And so I speak. Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my people and say: Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save; Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all; Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at His word. And for this I will answer, O people, answer here and hereafter, O people that I have loved, shall we not answer together?

(By permission of Messrs. Maunsel & Roberts, Dublin.)

The Return of Song.

[Sidenote: LORD DUNSANY]